AT CHURCH.
Sunday morning came bright and clear, but very cold, and many of the
girls made their appearance in the library, shaking and shivering, as if
they had never before experienced a northern winter.
"Gracious me!" exclaimed Sarah Brown, "I'm almost frozen. My room is as
cold as a barn! My cheeks are as blue as a razor, and my nose looks like
a great cranberry. Do let me get near the fire, Georgie; you're keeping
the heat off of every one."
Georgie made way for her, quietly remarking, as she did so:--
"Well, Sarah, I must say the cold is not very becoming to your style of
beauty; your nose and hair together ought to heat this room."
"You needn't say anything, Miss Graham; you're not so killing handsome
yourself that you can afford to make fun of others!" hotly retorted
Sarah.
It was a notable fact that these two could never come together without a
passage-at-arms. Grace's quietly hateful remarks always excited Sarah to
a most unmitigated degree, and she could not seem to learn by experience
that the only way to silence her was to take no notice of them; and
their disputes were often great sources of amusement to the other girls.
Georgie, tall and rather distingué-looking, although not pretty, with
her quietly assured manner even when she knew herself beaten, and her
hypocritically soft tones, was almost always more than a match for
Sarah, who never could hide her feelings no matter what they were and
who always retorted as sharply and spitefully as she could. She was a
warm-hearted little thing, as honest and true as she was impulsive, and
Georgie's quiet, deliberate hatefulness was more than she could bear.
If there was one subject on which Sarah was more sensitive than another
it was her hair. It was a rich, reddish-yellow; very thick, long and
curling, and any artist would have looked upon it with admiration; but
it was the bane of Sarah's existence. When she was a little girl it had
been really red, but time had softened its shade, and many a Parisian
belle might have envied Sarah its possession. Sarah could see no beauty
in it, for at home she was often greeted by the name of "carrot-top,"
and "little red hen;" and once when she got into a very excited argument
with her brother, and stood shaking her head at him with the long curls
which she then wore, flying about her shoulders, he had run out of the
room, shouting as he got well out of reach:--
"I say, Sal! how much would you charge to stand on Boston common nights,
and light the city? Your head would save all the expense of gas!"
You may be pretty sure it did not take Georgie Graham long to find out
Sarah's weakness, and so the poor child's bane was still kept before her
even at school, where there were no troublesome brothers.
She resolutely brushed out her long curls, and braided them into soft,
heavy braids, winding them round and round at the back of her head until
it looked like a great golden bee-hive; but she could not keep the front
from rippling into soft, delicate waves; or the short hairs from
twisting themselves into numberless little curls, which all the
crimping-pins and hot slate-pencils in the world could not imitate. This
hair which Georgie Graham so affected to despise was in reality a great
object of her admiration, and she would have gladly exchanged it, with
its usual accompaniments of glowing cheeks and scarlet lips, for her own
sallow skin and scanty, drabbish-brown locks. But I have made a
digression; let us return to our group in the library.
"What are you two quarrelling about this lovely Sunday morning?" asked
Florence Stevenson as she and Marion came into the room together.
"Oh, we were not quarrelling," replied Georgie. "Sarah was only
remarking that her cheeks were as blue as razors and her nose like a
cranberry, and I agreed with her,--that was all."
"Yes," exclaimed Sarah, "and I told you you weren't killing handsome,
and I dare say you agreed with me, though you didn't say so. But there
is one thing certain, if the cold makes frights of both of us, it makes
Marion look like a beauty!" and Sarah's eyes sparkled mischievously.
Georgie only shrugged her shoulders and elevated her eyebrows, as she
replied, "Chacun à son gout."
"But it doesn't happen to be your "gout," does it, Georgie?"
good-naturedly replied Marion, who knew very well that Sarah's
admiration of herself was thus publicly exhibited solely for the sake of
annoying Georgie.
"Come, girls, let's declare peace, or at least a 'cessation of
hostilities;' it's a shame to commence the day with quarrels;" and
Florence knelt down on the rug between the two girls, looking up at them
with a smile that it would have been hard for any one to have resisted.
Directly after this Miss Stiefbach entered, and all were quiet as she
read the morning prayers, and they joined in the responses.
By ten o'clock the girls, with the exception of Julia Thayer, whose
throat was still troubling her, and Grace Minton, who was suffering from
a sick headache, were on their way to church. They did not walk in a
regular procession like so many convicts on their way to prison, but
each chose her own companion, and the walk was enlivened with pleasant
conversation. It so chanced that Marion and Georgie Graham were
together, not by choice of either party, but because they both happened
to come downstairs a little late, and the others had already got into
the street as they came out the front door. Florence Stevenson, Miss
Christine, and Rachel Drayton were all walking together, and Georgie,
observing this, thought it would be an excellent opportunity for making
Marion thoroughly uncomfortable.
"It seems to me," she began, "you and Florence are not quite so fond of
each other as you used to be; or is it that she is not so fond of you?"
"I don't think there is any difference on either side," quietly replied
Marion, determined not to lose her temper, or be led into saying cutting
things of which she would have to repent.
"Oh, if you think so, I suppose it is all right; but I don't believe
there's a girl in the school who hasn't noticed how Florence has left
you to run after Rachel Drayton."
Marion resolutely kept silence, and Georgie, thinking that her shots had
not taken effect, continued: "I don't see what there is about that girl,
I'm sure, to make Flo fancy her so much; she certainly isn't pretty, and
she's awfully lackadaisical."
"I think she is very pretty," replied Marion; "and the reason she seems
lackadaisical is because she is not strong."
"I thought you did not like her," said Georgie, "you certainly have not
troubled yourself much to entertain her."
"I do not see as that is any reason why I should not think her pretty,
or why I should not see that she is quiet, because she is not only weak,
but very homesick and sad."
"Why, really, Marion, I had not any idea you had taken enough notice of
her to see all that. What a farce you must have been acting all this
time, to seem so indifferent when you were _really_ so deeply
interested!"
"If that is so, Georgie," replied Marion, as she looked her companion
steadily in the face, "I have been a better actress than you, for you
play your part so badly that the little boys in the amphitheatre might
see into the plot in the first act. I advise you to try another rôle."
Georgie opened her eyes in pretended astonishment; but she knew very
well what Marion meant, and that her intentions of tormenting her
companion were fully understood. But that fact did not prevent her from
saying in a gently insinuating tone: "Now, Marion, don't be provoked,
but _don't_ you think that Florence is rather turning the cold shoulder
on you?"
"No, Miss Graham, I do not," emphatically replied Marion, and for at
least five minutes Georgie said nothing. "I wonder!" she at last
exclaimed, "if Rachel Drayton is rich. I think she must be, for although
there is no style to her clothes, and she is of course very
dowdy-looking, still everything she has is made of the most expensive
material, and you know nice mourning costs awfully. Just look at her
vail now; see how long it is, and of the heaviest crépe; but she looks
like a ghost under it! I don't believe but what she is rich."
"Well, Georgie," replied Marion, with the slightest possible curve of
her lip, "I can satisfy you on that point. She _is quite_ well off; her
father left about two millions, and with the exception of a few legacies
of two or three hundred thousand or so, mere trifles to her, she will
have it all; you see she is pretty well provided for."
"Two millions!" exclaimed Georgie, startled out of her usual composure;
"two millions! why, I hadn't any idea of it."
"No, I thought not," dryly replied Marion.
"But, Marion, are you sure? How did you know it?"
"I heard Miss Stiefbach tell Miss Christine so the day Miss Drayton came
here."
"And you've known it all this time!" ejaculated Georgie, who could not
get over her astonishment.
"Yes," replied Marion, "I've known it all this time, and actually
haven't toadied her yet; aren't you surprised?" and Marion's voice had,
by this time, assumed its most coolly sarcastic tones, and her eyes
flashed scorn and indignation upon her bewildered companion.
"I wonder if Florence Stevenson knew it. I suppose of course she did,"
musingly remarked Georgie.
"No, she did not," sharply retorted Marion; "and she doesn't know it
now, I'm sure."
"Well, I don't know what to make of it!" replied Georgie in an annoyed
tone; "an heiress in school and no one to know it!"
"Don't you think her prettier than when you first saw her?" exclaimed
Marion, in such cutting, sarcastic tones that even Georgie winced; "and
her pale face, I'm sure you think there is something very distingué
about that, set off by her 'heavy, expensive crépe;' and then I know you
must think that there is something decidedly aristocratic about her
'lackadaisical' manner;" and Marion gave a little bitter laugh,
expressing quite as much scorn as her words.
At that moment, they entered the church porch, and Georgie made no
reply, only too glad of an excuse for silence.
Miss Stiefbach's scholars occupied the first six pews from the front;
three on each side of the broad aisle. Miss Stiefbach sat at the head of
one, with five of the youngest girls, and Miss Christine, on the
opposite side, also had some of the smaller girls with her, while the
rest of the scholars occupied the pews in front of their teachers.
As Marion entered the church, and the girls quietly took their places
and knelt in prayer, the solemn stillness of the place struck painfully
upon her. She could not so soon shake off all outward impressions, and
the cutting words which had passed her lips, just as she entered that
holy place, were still ringing in her ears.
She had risen that morning, her mind still filled with the pleasant
thoughts which had lulled her to sleep, and with good resolutions for
the future. She felt glad that it was Sunday, for she thought she was in
the mood to be benefited by the sacred influences of the day.
But where now were her good resolutions? She had yielded to the first
temptation; she had broken the vows made on her knees that morning, and
she was utterly disheartened and discouraged.
She knelt with the rest, her head bowed as if in prayer, but her mind in
a wild confusion of anger, shame, and remorse; but the anger died,
leaving nothing but the saddest, most wretched thoughts of all; the
sense of utter failure; of continued shortcomings, of broken resolutions
and disregarded vows, made sacred by the time and place of their
utterance.
She thought she was wicked because she could not pray, because her
thoughts would not become composed, quiet, and peaceful, like the place
and hour, and she knelt on, her hands clasped tightly together, and her
head pressed down into them, the only cry that could silently shape
itself into words, breaking from her heart in very agony of doubt and
despair: "O God, help me! O God, save me from myself!"
And who shall say that it was not enough? That that cry, coming from the
depths of a heart distressed, remorseful and repentant for errors that
to many would seem but trifles, did not reach the ear of Him who,
bending in mercy and love, sees into the hearts of all; reads the very
secrets of their souls; and to all who sincerely put their faith in Him
surely, sooner or later, sends them His consolation and peace? As the
others rose from their knees Marion was recalled to herself, and rising
with the rest, she opened her prayer-book and joined in the service,
which had just then commenced.
Mrs. Berkley had requested, when Marion entered Miss Stiefbach's school,
that no sectarian influences should be brought to bear upon her
daughter's mind. She wished that her child should follow her own
inclinations and the dictates of her own conscience in religious
matters, for she understood her well enough to know that she would not
blindly follow any faith without first feeling sure that she clearly
comprehended and sincerely believed all that its doctrines taught. The
influences which of course continually surrounded, although in a quiet,
unobtrusive way, were not without their effect. She loved the service of
Miss Stiefbach's church, and joined in it heartily. It seemed to her
that it brought her nearer to God if she knelt the first thing when she
entered the church and asked his blessing on her head. Not that silent,
heartfelt prayers could not be uttered anywhere and in any position; but
it seemed to her as if there, on her knees, in the place sacredly
dedicated to his worship. God did not seem so far off--as if she could
more earnestly and fervently supplicate him.
There was much in the service which she could not believe and accept as
it was intended it should be accepted; but she interpreted it as her own
heart dictated. The greater part, however, she believed and repeated
with reverence, and a feeling which could never come to her in her own
church; for there the intense simplicity and almost business-like manner
of conducting the service, struck harshly upon her sensibilities; and
she missed the participation in the prayers and responses which seemed
to draw her out of herself, and raise her thoughts above their common
level, even into the presence of the most High.
But to-day the holy words, the prayers and selections had no power to
calm her troubled spirit; she tried to fix her thoughts upon the sermon,
and not let them wander to dwell upon her own troubles; but it was no
use; her mind was still in bitter confusion when she left the church.
As she went down the path, Georgie, who seemed to have forgotten her
previous discomfiture, if not the subject of their conversation, joined
her and began plying her with fresh questions about Rachel Drayton.
Marion did her best to evade her remarks, but Georgie would not let her
alone, until, thoroughly exasperated and provoked beyond endurance, she
exclaimed shortly:--
"Georgie, I do wish you'd hold your tongue! I'm sick of your questions;
do let me alone!"
"Dear me!" replied Miss Georgie, "you were very communicative this
morning; but it's not very strange that you should be rather annoyed,
considering Rachel has taken your best friend away."
An angry retort rose to Marion's lips, but she controlled herself
sufficiently to keep from uttering it; although the expression of her
face warned Georgie that she had said quite enough, and the two
continued their walk in silence.
Having received permission from Miss Stiefbach, Marion set off
immediately after dinner for the All Saints' church, and as the services
began a half hour before St. Mark's she had her walk all to herself; nor
was she sorry for this, for she did not feel like talking to any one.
She was early; hardly any one was in the church, and without waiting for
the sexton to show her into a pew, she took the very front one, knowing
that it was almost always unoccupied. The hymns were read by the
clergyman of the parish; a good, earnest man, and one who in the homes
of the poor, and by the bedsides of the suffering and dying was often
seen, and most sincerely loved; but he had not the gift of preaching; he
rarely made his sermons go home to the hearts of his hearers, and Marion
felt disappointed when she saw him; she had hoped to hear some one else.
Her surprise and pleasure was great, when Mr. More stepped forward and
announced that Mr. B., who had been pastor of that church fifteen years
before, would preach for them that day.
The minister came forward, and bowing his head, remained for a moment in
silent prayer; when he lifted it again Marion felt as if she had seen
the face of an angel, so holy, peaceful, and patient was its expression.
He was a very old man; his hair hung long and white about his shoulders;
and as the beams of the afternoon's sun fell upon it, it gleamed with a
light which was almost unearthly, spiritualizing and sanctifying that
beautiful old face, until it seemed to many as if he were speaking to
them from the very gates of heaven. His sermon was short but impressive;
the gentle pathos of his voice, and the earnestness of his manner, were
felt by all who heard him. Bending over the pulpit as he closed his
discourse, his voice fell into a soft, musical cadence, which though
very low reached the most remote recesses of the church, and stretching
out his arms as if he would have taken each one by the hand and led them
to the haven where he had found rest and peace, he exclaimed, or rather
entreated:--
"O my friends! look down into your own hearts, and read each one of you
what is written there; pride, wilfulness, sin in many forms. Man's
greatest enemy is self. But who has said, 'He that conquereth himself is
greater than he that taketh a city'?--Jesus! Jesus the Saviour, who came
to wash out all our sins; to give us strength for the struggles and
trials which come to us all; to teach us patience, humility, and
charity.
"Each one in this world, young or old, has his sorrows to bear; his
temptations to resist; his victories to gain; and to each one it seems
sometimes as if everything was darkness and desolation; the blackness of
night surrounds them on every side; darkness! darkness everywhere! no
light, no hope, no guide. Look up, my friends! look up! not to the
darkness; but above it, beyond it, to where Christ stands, ready, ay,
more than ready. He comes to meet you, his eyes beaming with
compassionate love, his hands outstretched. Grasp those hands, hold fast
and firm; they, and they alone, can lead you through storm and darkness,
through sorrow and fear; until kneeling at last in perfect peace and
happiness you shall behold the face of your Father in heaven."
Then followed the Lord's Prayer; but Marion could not take her eyes from
that holy face. It seemed to her as if every word had been uttered for
her alone; as if the speaker had looked down into the secrets of her
heart and had tried to give her comfort and consolation.
And this was partly true. As Mr. B. leaned forward and cast his eyes
over the congregation they fell upon the face of that young girl,
looking up at him with a longing, wistful, tearful glance that startled
him. For many years he had been settled over a fashionable society in
New York, where he often felt that the words he uttered were but as
"seed sown by the wayside" or "on stony ground;" but there was no
mistaking the earnestness of that face, over which was spread an
expression which it pained him to see in one so young; for he knew that
her trials, whatever they were, were but just begun, and thinking of the
years of struggling that would probably come to her, his heart yearned
over her in deepest sympathy. With the thought of her uppermost in his
mind he gave out the closing hymn; two verses only. Marion had heard
them often before, but their depth and meaning never came to her so
fully as now:--
"Give to the winds thy fears;
Hope and be undismayed;
God hears thy sighs, and counts thy tears;
He shall lift up thy head.
"Through waves, through clouds and storms,
He gently clears thy way;
Wait thou his time, so shall the night
Soon end in glorious day."
As the last notes of the choir died away, and Marion bowed her head to
receive the benediction, she felt strengthened and encouraged; and a
peace such as she had not known for months fell upon her heart.
As she passed out of church she avoided meeting any one whom she knew,
and hurried out of hearing of the remarks of various members of the
congregation, who were commenting on the sermon in very much the same
manner as if it had been a theatrical performance.
Such expressions as, "Very fine sermon, wasn't it?--hit some of us
pretty hard;" or "What a charming voice and manner! why, he really quite
touched me!" made by different persons in a flippant, off-hand tone,
jarred upon her ears, and she was thankful to leave them all behind.
As she was about to cross the street, preparatory to turning off into
the road which led to school, she stopped to allow a carriage to pass;
as it reached her a gentleman leaned towards her, and looking up she met
the eyes of the minister bent down upon her with an expression of the
deepest interest.
She never saw that face again; but the remembrance of it went with her
through her whole life.